


On the Stairs

by foryouandbits



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Almost Kiss, Angst, Drunk John, Drunk Sherlock, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-13
Updated: 2015-05-13
Packaged: 2018-03-30 10:20:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3933112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foryouandbits/pseuds/foryouandbits
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How did Sherlock and John end up on the stairs together after the stag night? Here's one possible explanation...and some exploration of what could have happened if they weren't interrupted right away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Stairs

**Author's Note:**

> The break divides the possible explanation from the "what could have happened after."

The pub crawl had lasted exactly five hours and eighteen minutes, by Sherlock's infallible calculation, and would have continued much longer had John not insisted they return to Baker street following a very necessary altercation regarding an insult to Sherlock's knowledge of ash. Sherlock knew at the very least two hundred and forty three different kinds of ash and was not keen on being told that he did not.

Overall it had been a very enlightening evening. By pub three, John finally caught on that there was a theme to their excursion, although he did not understand what, and by pub four – a gay nightclub, the only option available on that street – he'd lost the sense of the meaning of the crawl. That was possibly because John had been spiking their drinks with whiskey shots and Sherlock allowed John to do so, knowing that it made him happier to have a sense of control. They stayed at the nightclub for 221.85 milliliters of beer before the shirtless men made John uncomfortable for reasons Sherlock did not understand (and he did not like not understanding), so they moved on to the next stop.

John exited the cab first and Sherlock watched as John unlocked the door. John had far too many keys to choose from on his ring – the key to Baker street, of course, his house key with Mary, his car key, the key to his office at the surgery, his key to the PO Box that no one used as the address was on the website, and two keys to two different gyms he had joined over the years, neither of which he still attended but neither of which he remembered to cancel. Several of those keys could have been eliminated and would have decreased the amount of time standing on the doorstep by fifty-seven percent.

The door to Baker Street was already unlocked.

When Sherlock entered and closed the door behind him, he found John staring up at the stairs with a sallow look of apprehension on his face. "Maybe I should go home," said John without removing his eyes from the stairs. "Less stairs that way."

"Fewer," Sherlock corrected.

"What?"

"Fewer stairs that way. If you can count the number, you would say 'fewer' –"

"Yes, yes, I know, Sherlock," said John and turned around to leave. Sherlock grabbed him by the arm and turned him around again, which caused John to sway dizzily. John must have sneaked more whisky shots than Sherlock observed.

"The night is still young, John, so there is no going home now. I told you tonight's theme was streets where we found a dead body, so let's sit in our chairs and ruminate on the fond memories associated with those dead people."

"Unh, I think I'd rather just sit in my chair and sleep it off," said John, still swaying under Sherlock's grip. "Why are you still spinning me around?"

"I'm not, John."

John made a whining sort of noise and collapsed backwards out of Sherlock's grip and onto the stairs. Instead of taking this opportunity to orient himself or just get up again, John leaned backward and folded his arms across his chest, effectively settling himself in for a nap on the stairs. Sherlock leaned forward to collect John, knowing that this was among the four least logical places in the flat for a nap, but when his body bent forward to grasp his best friend, his center of gravity decentralized itself and Sherlock ended up on the stairs next to John, facing the railing. It did not take very long for him to adjust his categorization of the stairs from the bottom four to the top four, as he found this place extraordinarily comfortable, and did not know if it were due to the actual comfort of the wood beneath him or the proximity to his friend, his back pressed against John's shoulder, his arse into John's hip. There was no reason in the vast regions of his brilliant mind to ever remove himself from this spot.

* * *

John slept either for several hours or just a few minutes. He was not sure. He did know that he had drifted at some point, because when he fell asleep he was alone, but when he awoke, he was not. He sighed happily, for he was at home in his bed and Mary was on his left just like she was every night. However, as he began to wake from his stupor, he realized that it was not Mary at all next to him. The legs were too long. The body was too lanky. The smell was different.

It was Sherlock. The next best thing to Mary.

Furthermore, he was not at home in his comfortable bed. He was on the stairs at Baker Street and he vaguely remembered collapsing onto them to try to stop the room from spinning. It was Sherlock's fault, Sherlock spun him around and around to keep him in the flat, and John ended up here. He did not understand how Sherlock ended up next to him, his bony arse firmly pressed against John's hip. Sherlock was not the type of person to carry John up the stairs to the flat – John had done that for Sherlock, when Sherlock had been drugged by The Woman – so it made sense that Sherlock would leave him there, but it must have been the extra whiskey shots that caused Sherlock to decide it would be better to sleep with John than leave him alone on the stairs.

NEXT to John.

NEXT to. Not with.

It was a few minutes before John realized that Sherlock was muttering next to him.

"I have an international reputation," Sherlock was saying and he shifted on the stairs against John as he included John in the conversation. "Do you have an international reputation?"

John was too tired to figure out the reasoning behind these mutterings. "No I don't have an international reputation," he replied.

"And I can't even remember what for," said Sherlock, and for some reason John thought that Sherlock must be known internationally for having such a bony arse. Such a lovely, bony –

"Crime," said Sherlock.

Right. Crime. That made much more sense.

They fell back into silence and John began to drift again. Even though the stairs were not the ideal place to sleep, everything about that particular moment on them felt incredibly wonderful. The temperature of the room, the hardness of the stairs, the feel of Sherlock's coat on his fingers…he let himself fall into the abyss of dark sleep, but not before he shifted onto his side, so he could get more of that coat in his fingers. Sherlock moaned or muttered or did something under the weight of his arm, but didn't attempt to stop John, so they lay together on the stairs, John's nose in the junction of Sherlock's upturned collar and mess of curls, his arm draped around Sherlock's waist, his fingers grasping the edge of the left side of Sherlock's coat.

Sherlock smelled like Christmas – not like the pine and pie sort of Christmas smell, but like the sort of smell that reminds a person of the feeling of Christmas, the nostalgia of peace and happiness that a childhood Christmas provided. John breathed in Sherlock's curly hair and exhaled onto Sherlock's neck, causing Sherlock to shiver just briefly in return, but neither of them acknowledged it. John began to wonder, as he lay between his fantastical world of dreams where everything happened without consequence and the practical world where he lay on stairs cuddling his male best friend instead of his fiancée, if Sherlock tasted like Christmas too. He probably didn't. He wore that coat regardless of temperature and, after so many alcoholic beverages consumed that evening in the three and a half hours they were out, his neck probably tasted like salty sweat, which did not remind John of Christmas but instead the scorching heat of the desert of Afghanistan. Of course that meant that he began to remember life in Afghanistan, days where he had to wear all of his gear when the temperature was well into the upper forties, when he had to look everywhere at once for possible threats, all of which instilled a reminiscent adrenaline into his veins, the kind he missed when not around Sherlock. Sherlock probably tasted like adrenaline, he concluded, and he wanted to know that taste, so he leaned the crown of his head backward, bringing his lips forward, and gently touched them to the exposed skin at the nape of Sherlock's neck, next to his lowest curl.

Sherlock jumped and John backed off just as quickly, the taste of Sherlock's adrenaline-like sweat on John's lips. John ran his tongue over his lips, like he did so frequently, to explore the taste further. It wasn't unpleasant, but Sherlock's reaction was. John wanted to apologize, but he didn't, and now that the moment was over Sherlock's visceral response seemed more out of surprise than disgust. Sherlock didn't pull away from John's grip, nor did he comment or shake or show any other external sign of dissent, so John slowly returned his lips to Sherlock's neck, and this time Sherlock let him.

John tasted along Sherlock's hairline, his tongue dragging against the skin until he reached Sherlock's ear, where the sweat ended, leaving no excuse to go further. The lack of saltiness did not stop John. He still wanted to know what Sherlock tasted like everywhere on his body, and when he took Sherlock's earlobe in his mouth and Sherlock reacted with a slight nudge of his arse back into John's hips, he realized that he wasn't tasting; he was kissing. That realization caused him to let go of Sherlock's ear. He sat up, which was a bad idea since it caused his head to pound three times like he was inside a church bell, and looked down at his friend. Sherlock turned his face to look back at John, but his expression was unreadable.

"It's fine," said Sherlock with no emotion in his voice, and John couldn't tell what Sherlock meant by that. What was fine? How could it be fine? It was not good, every part of this interaction was not good, and John felt the urge to vomit for reasons unrelated to his overindulgence in alcohol.

"Maybe we should go upstairs," said John and realized that his words could be taken in multiple contexts, but also did not bother to clarify his intent, since he was unsure what his true intent really was.

"Just lie down, John," said Sherlock and turned his head to face the railing again. John did, unsure of why he did, and let his arm drape around Sherlock's waist again. He settled for breathing Sherlock in, not tasting, not exploring, but before long he felt Sherlock's fingers interlace with his at Sherlock's waist. This could end in several different ways, John thought, and he could not tell in that moment, in that state of inebriation, which one of those ways was ideal. He did know he'd grown extremely confused in the last few minutes, and was very glad they were alone on these stairs so no one could see them in such a compromising situation.

It was not long before John began, without his knowledge or consent, to rub his nose into Sherlock's curls, and as a response Sherlock gripped John's hand without a word. Then, after more time had passed, John began to kiss Sherlock's neck – intentional, non-tasting kisses – and Sherlock's arse did that thing again, where it jutted back against John's hips. John still didn't know if he was okay with this, but it was happening, and he decided it would be best not to think about that it was happening, and instead just let it happen in whatever way it would unfold.

Before John could make it to Sherlock's face, however, footsteps were heard coming from Mrs. Hudson's suite. John immediately let go of Sherlock and lay back in his original position, his arms crossed around his chest, his eyes closed, his heart beating erratically in his chest. The door opened and Mrs. Hudson spotted them on the stairs.

"Oh," she said. "What are you doing back? I thought you'd be out late."

"Ah, Hudders," said Sherlock as if he and John had not been in an intimate embrace just moments before, "what time is it?"

"You've only been out two hours," said Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock sat up in alarm, wedging himself against John as he did so, and collapsed onto the stair beneath him. When she was gone, John and Sherlock looked back at each other, a look of missed opportunity in both of their eyes. The moment was gone, Mrs. Hudson knew they were home, and although both still drunk and uncoordinated, they knew whatever may have happened on that stairwell would never reach completion.

"Upstairs?" John suggested. Sherlock nodded. They reluctantly climbed the stairs and entered the flat. John poured them both a glass of scotch, but they sat apart from each other in their chairs and decided it would be best to play a game of "Who am I?" than to recreate the confusing and painful events they'd just experienced below.

They never discussed that night again.


End file.
